It

much around town. His few glimpses of Mr Bowers had reinforced the notion.
‘I don’t mean just a little crazy,’ Will said, lighting a home –rolled Bugler cigarette and looking at his son. ‘He’s t about three steps away from the boobyhatch. He came back from the war that way.’
‘I think Henry’s crazy too,’ Mike said. His voice was low but firm, and that strengthened Will’s heart . . . although he was, even after a checkered life whose incidents had included almost being burned alive in a juryrigged speakeasy called the Black Spot, unable to believe a kid like Henry could be crazy.
‘Well, he’s listened to his father too much, but that is only natural,’ Will said. Yet on this his son was closer to the truth. Henry Bowers, either because of his constant association with his father or because of something else — some interior thing — was indeed slowly but surely going crazy.
‘I don’t want you to make a career out of running away,’ his father said, ‘but because you’re a Negro, you’re apt to be put upon a good deal. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Daddy,’ Mike said, thinking of Bob Gautier at school, who had tried to explain to Mike that nigge r could not be a bad word, because his father used it all the time. In fact, Bob told Mike earnestly, it was a good word. When a fighter on the Friday Night Fights took a bad beating and managed to stay on his feet, his daddy said, ‘His head is as hard as a nigger’s,’ and when someone was really putting out at his work (which, for Mr Gautier, was Star Beef in town), his daddy said, ‘That man works like a nigger.’ ‘And my daddy is just as much a Christian as your daddy,’ Bob had finished. Mike remembered tha t, looking at Bob Gautier’s white earnest pinched face, surrounded by the mangy fur of his hand-me –down snowsuit –hood, he had felt not anger but a terrible sadness that made him feel like crying. He had seen honesty and good intent in Bob’s face, but what he had felt was loneliness, distance, a great whistling emptiness between himself and the other boy.
‘I see that you do know what I mean,’ Will said, and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘And what it all comes down to is that you have to be careful where you take your stand. You have to ask yourself if Henry Bowers is worth the trouble. Is he?’
‘No,’ Mike said. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ It would be yet awhile before he changed his mind; July 3rd, 1958, in fact.
4
While Henry Bowers, Victor Criss, Belch Huggins, Peter Gordon, and a half-retarded high-school boy named Steve Sadler (known as Moose, after the character in the Archie comics) were chasing a winded Mike Hanlon through the trainyard and toward the Barrens about half a mile away, Bill and the rest of the Losers’ Club were still sitting on the bank of the Kenduskeag, pondering their nightmare problem.
‘I nun-know w-where ih-ih-it is, I think,’ Bill said, finally breaking the silence.
‘The sewers,’ Stan said, and they all jumped at a sudden, harsh rattling noise. Eddie smiled guiltily as he lowered his aspirator back into his lap.
Bill nodded. ‘I wuh-wuh-was a-asking my fuh-father about the suh-sewers a f-few nuh-hi-hights a-a-ago.’
‘All of this area was originally marsh,’ Zack told his son, ‘and the town fathers managed to put what’s downtown these days in the very worst part of it. The section of the Canal that runs under Center and Main and comes out in Bassey Park is really nothing but a drain that happens to hold the Kenduskeag. Most of the year those drains are almost empty, but they’re important when the spring runoff comes or when there are floods . . . ‘He paused here, perhaps thinking that it had been during the flood of the previous autumn that he had lost his younger son. ‘ . . . because of the pumps,’ he finished.
‘Puh-puh-pumps?’ Bill asked, turning his head a little without even think ing about it. When he stuttered over the plosive sounds, spittle flew from his lips.
The drainage pumps,’ his father said. ‘They’re in the Barrens. Concrete sleeves that stick about three feet out of the ground — ‘
‘Buh-Buh-Ben H-H-H-Hanscom calls them Muh-Morlock h-holes,’ Bill said, grinning.
Zack grinned back . . . but it was a shadow of his old grin. They were in Zack’s workshop, where he was turning chair –dowels without much interest. ‘Sump-pumps is all they really are, kiddo,’ he said. They sit in cylinders about ten feet deep, and they pump the sewage and the runoff along when the slope of the land levels out or angles up a little. It’s old machinery, and the city should have some new pumps, but the Council always pleads poverty when the item comes up on the agenda at budget meetings. If I had a quarter for every time I’ve been down there, up to my knees in crap, rewiring one of those motors .